


The Corrupt and the Wicked

by QueenTorygg



Category: Dragon Age (Tabletop RPG), Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, The Stolen Throne - Fandom
Genre: Book: Dragon Age - The Stolen Throne, Dragon Age - Freeform, Dragon Age Spoilers, Gen, Other, Pre-Stolen Throne
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26227894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenTorygg/pseuds/QueenTorygg
Summary: Blessed are they who stand beforeThe corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.-Benedictions 4:10In order to gain control over Mistmoor, which is overrun by secretive supporters of the Rebel Queen, the new Arl Douglas refuses to allow the burial of Ailish's rebellious brother. Outraged and heartbroken over the mistreatment of her family, Ailish defies his order, establishing herself as a rebel, both against the Arl and against the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden.Set a year or so before the events of The Stolen Throne, several years prior to Dragon Age: Origins.(Characters are mostly original/inspired by Sophocles' characters, but there are several references to DA canon characters and canon events. References made to locations mentioned in the Tabletop RPG. Heavily inspired by Don Taylor's translation of Antigone.)
Relationships: OC/OC, Original Character - Relationship





	1. Denied

**Author's Note:**

> (Heavily inspired by Don Taylor's translation of Antigone.)

It was night time. As the Mistmoor castle guards changed shifts, the courtyard was left empty of life, save for garden snakes and insects. With their path lighted by fireflies, and the song of the crickets to mask their tiptoeing, Ailish led her sister Imogen by the hand to the pavilion. Curtains of moss hung from the canopy and masked their figures from the prying eyes behind the windows overlooking the garden.

With a pale finger to her lips, Ailish checked their surroundings for any listeners. Imogen followed her sister’s example, and together, the two of them confirmed that they were alone. They finally embraced one another, shivering with terror. Imogen began to weep.

“Imogen,” Ailish began, stroking her sister’s hair to soothe her, “It seems that suffering is to be our destiny, as it was our father’s. This punishment dealt to all his children. Pain, contempt, every kind of insult the two of us have endured. But there is more to come.”

Ailish released Imogen, and lead her by the arm to the closest stone bench. The two of them sat, hands clasped and shared jade-green eyes shining with tears.

“What have you heard?” Ailish asked. “Have you heard the order the new Arl has issued? About how those closest to us are to be treated?”

“Ailish, I have heard nothing!” Imogen’s voice was a strained whisper. “No one had told me anything, nothing good nor bad about anyone we love. Not since we heard that Paraic and Errol were dead—Maker bless our poor brothers! What a horrific thought, to know that they could cut one another down, and so savagely, too.” She put her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. After several deep breaths, she was able to shake her head and continue. “But I have heard nothing beyond that. Nothing to cheer me or depress me further.”

“Right, of course.” Ailish nodded, a stern look on her face and her fists clenched. “I thought that would be the case. Which is why I asked you here, so I could talk to you without fear of anyone else hearing what I am about to tell you.”

The blood drained from Imogen’s grief-swollen face. “What is it? More terrible news?” Her voice was naught but a wisp when she put a hand on Ailish’s cheek. “Judging by your face, it’s something black and frightening, indeed.”

“What do you think, Imogen?” Ailish sighed, but put an arm around her sister’s shoulder. In front of them, her hands animated the conversation. “Here, we have two brothers: both dead. Arl Douglas has decreed that a decent burial be given to one, but not the other.”

Imogen whimpered, and Ailish’s embrace tightened.

“Errol has already been buried, apparently. He was given all rites a good Andrastian is entitled to, all formalities due to the dead observed. _He_ is safe at the Maker’s side, at rest and safe from demons wandering in from the fade to defile his body.”

Imogen wrestled out of Ailish’s arms and turned away. She scooted to the far side of the bench and sat hugging herself, and hunched forward so that her tears would fall to the ground. Ailish followed her along the bench, resting her own head on Imogen’s back. She was able to continue, but her voice was choked out around a lump in her throat.

“But _Paraic!_ ” Ailish cried, “Paraic is left to stink in the open! No tears, no ceremonies for him! _He_ is to be left lying where he fell, a warning for all others who follow the Rebel Queen. What a _great_ Arl that Douglas is, eh sister?”

After a few tears between them, Ailish stood and dried her face on her sleeve, taking a few steps to the opposite side of the pavilion. When she finally had composed herself, she spoke again, her voice coming out nasally and shaking. “Of course, Imogen, you realize this decree is against us, yes? Tomorrow he intends to make it public to all of Mistmoor and rest of the Bannorn, and all other agents of Queen Moira. He isn’t playing. He means to act to make the message clear, the punishment for all who disobey his order is death.”

Imogen furrowed her brow and looked up at Ailish with a puzzled expression. “And? What can we do about that? If all this is true, then what can we do against an order from the Arl? It’s not as though our Orlesian masters would seek justice on our brother’s behalf, Paraic was a rebel!”

“Just say that you’ll help me!” Ailish crossed the Pavilion back to Imogen, and knelt in front of her, clasping her hands in her own. “I need a hand to lift the body, it’s too heavy for me to do it on my own.”

“To bury him?” Imogen’s eyes went wide, and she jerked her hands away. “In spite of the Arl’s order? You must be mad!”

Ailish grabbed Imogen’s wrists, her voice raising to a dangerous volume for secrecy. “He is my _brother!_ And like it or not, Imogen, he is yours too.” She dropped her voice back down low, and leaned in close to Imogen’s face, one finger extended to scold her as if she were a naughty puppy. “I will not betray Paraic now that he’s gone. No one will ever be able to throw that in my face.”

“But our uncle has forbidden it, Ailish!”

“He cannot forbid me from loving my brother! He has neither the power nor the right to do that.”

Ailish turned away now, but this time it was Imogen who was grabbing after her, standing up and spinning her sister around so they could speak on the same level, facing one another.

“Ailish,” Imogen said gently, “Have you forgotten what happened to father? And mother? Mother died in service to the rebels and father—our poor father. He couldn’t bear the pain. Now our brothers were caught in the same trap! If Paraic had left well enough alone, not gotten involved with the rebels and just kept his head down, then there would have been no need for he and Errol to fight.”

Imogen raised her hands to rest on Ailish’s shoulders. “ _We_ are the only ones left, sister. And what terrible death awaits us if we disobey our uncle? Unlike our parents, he has the favor of many powerful Orlesians. Think for a moment, Ailish, please!” Imogen shook Ailish slightly. “We are just two women with no real titles or legitimate claims on anything that we might use to bargain for our freedom. May the Maker forgive us, but we really have no choi--.”

“Don’t!” Ailish interrupted, slapping one of Imogen’s hands off of her shoulders. Her voice was low and venomous. “Don’t you dare say anything more. I won’t ask this of you again.”

“Ailish, I—”

“In fact, if you were to offer help now, I would refuse it!” Ailish threw her arms in the air. They dropped heavily at her sides, where she gripped the fabric of her skirt so tightly her knuckles turned white. She took one step towards Imogen, who immediately stepped back. “Just do as you please, you blighted coward. _I_ intend to bury my brother. If I die in the attempt, then I die knowing that I tried to do the right thing. What greater satisfaction could I have going to the Maker’s side knowing that I was a loving sister? Our lives are far too short to waste on men and the laws that they make.”

Imogen buried her face in her hands to sob for a moment. When she took them away, she stamped her foot. “How am I to defy an Arl? What weapons, what skills do I have that make me strong enough to do such a thing? I’m frightened, Ailish, don’t you see? I’m frightened for _you!_ ”

“Fine. That’s a good excuse.” Ailish turned to leave the pavilion, walking hurriedly through the grass in the courtyard’s garden.

“I-I’ll keep this a secret!” Imogen called out after her in a half-whisper.

Spinning around to face Imogen once more, Ailish shook her head, her stance defiant. She was near to shaking with rage, and it reflected in the volume of her voice, which she no longer tried to keep low and secretive. “No! Don’t you dare. You should tell everyone. Shout it in the streets, tell every person that you see what transpired here tonight. If you dare keep this a secret, I shall hate you.”

“Ailish, please don’t be so cold! You can’t possibly succeed in this; don’t you know that? You’ll die and I’ll be all alone! _Ailish_!”

Tearing her gaze away from Imogen, Ailish shook her head. She turned back the way she was heading, and stood still for a moment. “I shall fail, when I have failed. Not before.”

Imogen sighed. Then, quietly added, “Then, if you’ve made up your mind … just know that I love you. No matter what happens.”

The two sisters parted ways in opposite directions. Ailish crossed the garden and left the grounds of Mistmoor castle, while Imogen slinked back inside, pausing to look back into the dark, waiting to see if her sister would have a change of heart and come in too. Moments passed with no sign that Ailish would return, so Imogen sighed, then went inside, easing the door shut quietly behind her.


	2. The Miracle of Man

Ailish, with a stolen shovel in-hand, knelt at her brother’s body in the town center, at the foot of a statue of Andraste. It was a public death for both her brothers, but only one was to be shamed. Her nose creased with recoil. Paraic had only lain in the sun for a day, but the metallic stink of blood was enough to overpower the strongest of appetites. She dropped her shovel at her side and placed a hand on his cold cheek and shed a tear.

“Poor Paraic,” she whispered, “what are you doing out here all alone?”

She moved around to his head, lifting him up to get her arms under his. Paraic had been a rather strong man, and one of considerable height, so moving him on her own proved to be the challenge she knew it would. Not twenty feet from the spot where he fell did Ailish run out of breath. Collapsing with his head in her lap, she lowered her head with grief, hiding her despair behind a black curtain of coiled hair.

_Fine_. She finally thought. _I shall bury him here. Better here than not at all._

As Ailish went back to retrieve her shovel, she heard a noise coming from a dark alley, a clattering, as if something had fallen. She quickly moved to the other side of the statue of the Maker’s Bride, and peered out from cover.

A guard, perhaps. A thief in the night. A stray cat. _Imogen._

The name tasted sour to think of at the moment, and Ailish wouldn’t have put it past her sister to try and redeem herself now. Ailish watched the alley to be sure, holding her breath as she waited for whomever or whatever it was to identify itself by emerging or making more noise.

Heavy boots. The jangling of chainmail. The squeaking sound of fine leather. Breezing into the square from the alley came a tall and dark figure, cloaked and lightly, albeit finely armored. They paused for just a split second, as if stopping to follow the trail Paraic’s heels had left in the dirt. Once finding the body, the figure approached, dropping to one knee.

They crossed Paraic’s arms over his body, and knelt there for some time, head low. When they finally stood, they unfastened their cloak, sweeping it off and laying it over the body. Even in the dark, but now unobstructed by a hood, Ailish could recognize that figure. His handsome hook nose and squared jaw were all too familiar. The moonlight caught on his blond curls. Even in the dark, she could reconstruct that beloved face in its entirety from memory.

_Ewan._

She emerged from her hiding place, upon which Ewan drew his sword. The shiny blade caught the moonlight, shining bright, pure white in Ailish’s eyes. She squinted against it, putting a hand up to shield her eyes.

“Ailish?” He called out softly. Once the sword was sheathed once more, he approached her, his stride long and quick.

His arms were wide out to receive her in his embrace, and she walked happily into it. They held one another in silence for a long time, and did not part very far when Ewan finally broke the silence.

“It’s dangerous to be out here, darling,” he warned, a stern look on his face. “You should go home.”

“And abandon my brother?” She cupped Ewan’s cheek, then stood on her toes to kiss him softly. He gently pushed her away, to hold him from arm’s length. She could see from his face that it pained him to deny her that way, but it was likely to keep her from being any more of a distraction she knew she was.

“This is a crime, Ailish. Let me do it.”

“No!” She brushed past him; arms crossed. “I should be the one to see that he is honored in death. It is the family’s duty, after all.”

“Then, Imogen, where is she?”

“Damn Imogen!” Ailish stomped back to the statue to retrieve her shovel, stopping to look up at the statue of Andraste. She placed a hand at Andraste’s feet and heaved a long sigh. “Imogen has refused to help me, therefore betraying our brother, and by extension, me. _Damn her_.”

“Again, darling, this is a _crime_ ," Ewan walked over to grab one of her hands again, then the shovel. He planted a kiss on her forehead before continuing. “Imogen would be afraid to defy the law my step-father put in place, as I am for you. Please let me help.”

“Ewan, you know I cannot let you do that. It is my burden to bear, and mine alone now that I have no support to speak of from my remaining family.”

“Am I not to be your husband?”

For the first time that night, Ailish smiled, showing her teeth. Though her lips read a happy expression, her eyes held all the sorrow and desolation that wracked her heart. A tear slipped down her cheek, which Ewan brushed away with his thumb. His hand lingered there, and hers rested over top of it, brushing over his knuckles with her fingers.

“I love you, Ewan. But you are not my husband yet. And I know that Arl Douglas will not suffer disobedience. I will be found out soon enough.”

Ewan searched Ailish’s face, then lowered his head in defeat.

“I know better than to think you can be swayed on this.” He said, voice ringing hollow. “Very well. Just remember to cover your tracks, my love.”

She watched her love retrieve his cloak from Paraic’s body, stopping to linger, perhaps to give his silent regards. It felt like an eternity before he finally left through the same alley down which he had arrived. Finally, she was alone, free to pay her dead brother the respects due.

***

The night gave way to a clear and sunny sky early in the morning, and perhaps had never shone more brightly on Mistmoor castle and its village.

“Never a more glorious sunrise than this,” remarked Braden, a lanky, middle-aged man who had been sat down to breakfast with the Arl. As his friend and advisor, it would have often been his privilege to come to breakfast, but the mood today was not at home for old friends. He smiled at the morning jams and helped himself to toasted bread and eggs. “And to think, this quiet morning could have been consumed by the slaughter of the rebels that would heed Paraic’s call to arms. ‘Tis better this way, to leave the music of death to their imaginations. What inflated pride that boy had. A windbag. Making false claims and singing an empty song of fame to the glory-starved. Farmers and merchants and craftsmen. Unsuited for conflict. A waste of life, it would have been.”

Douglas, across from him quietly buttered a slice of bread, his early-morning glowering in stark contrast to his friend’s animated musing. He looked up from his plate only when Braden clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“There is call for celebration, my friend. _You_ are Arl. There is to be no more rebellion, no more danger for the citizens of Mistmoor. It is as though the Maker himself has guided you to this position.” Braden took a bite of toast, chewed well, then swallowed. Finally, he paused his meal to wipe his hands, and nod to Douglas. “Of course, there must be another reason why you called me here, this morning. You seem troubled.”

Douglas shrugged while a deep crease formed in the center of his aged forehead. Brushing back his white hair with a careful hand, he finally leaned back in his seat, lacing his fingers together in thought. “Mistmoor, like a ship at sea has survived a hurricane.” Douglas’ voice was like a distant roll of thunder. “Blessed Andraste has navigated us to calmer waters. I have summoned you here this morning, because I know I can trust you. You have been our family friend for years, served my brother-in-law well as the Arl before me. When tragedy struck him, your loyalty to his bloodline was never questioned: you supported his sons until they too were cut down.”

Douglas pushed away from the dining table and strode over to the mantle the fire under which was cold due to the season. Above the mantle a portrait of his late sister Janet hung, pictured young, the paint preserving a youthful glow, the gleam of mischief in her eyes. A rebel, just like her son Paraic after her. Douglas touched a hand to his heart.

  
“I claim the Arling of Mistmoor, both castle and village.” Douglas proclaimed, now abandoning the sight of his rebellious sister. “There is no more certain measure of a man’s quality, his intellect, or maturity of his judgement until he is put to the supreme test of lawful power, Braden.”

An elven cleaning maid breezed by, coming to refill morning tea. When she was gone, Braden looked to Douglas, his head cocked to one side in interest. Of course, the Arl obliged.

“You already know my opinions, but let me be clear. No matter if the man holds the highest title of King or the lowest title of Lord, so long as he fears the consequences of his actions, acts only in secret, or refuses to take the good advice of his advisors, he is beneath contempt. Equally disgraceful is the man that puts the interests of his friends or family before the majority. Let me make it clear, before the Maker himself: whosoever proves themselves an enemy of Ferelden, proves themselves an enemy of me.”

Braden, who had seemed cheerful just moments earlier, now was found with his smile faltering, and his appetite spoiled. Douglas returned to his seat at the head of the table, adjacent Braden.

“My friend.” Braden started, voice wavering. “You are Arl now. You have delivered your verdict. Paraic’s body is to be left a stinking feast for crows and scavengers, a sight to inspire terror in the fiercest of the Rebel Queens servants here in Mistmoor. You have made it plain: never under your administration will people threaten the fate of Mistmoor. Never will they potentially invoke the wrath of Orlais.”

“Yet those that honor my order, they will be rewarded, even in death.” added Douglas.

The men sat in silence, continuing their breakfast for a brief recess. After swallowing a tasteless mouthful of eggs and ham, Braden cleared his throat. “Then what responsibility am I being delegated, my lord?”

“You are being asked not to scheme with dissidents.”

“I am not mad, sir. I know the law.” Braden furrowed his brow. “I know the penalty for breaking it, too.”

“Which will be death!” Douglas’ face was stone, and he dropped a heavy fist on the table. With his other hand, which was half-occupied with his meal, he lifted his fork, pointing it towards Braden. “Don’t doubt for a minute that I wouldn’t enforce it.”

Another servant, one more finely dressed and distinctively human arrived in the doorway. “Word for you, milord.” He said, deadpan, before stepping aside to allow a town guard through.

He wore a filthy leather jerkin with Mistmoor’s crest, and held a leather helm under his arm. The guard was a young man, perhaps barely twenty, and was equally as filthy as his clothing. Douglas’ face soured when he caught sight of the boy, but stood quickly, expecting some black news.

“M-my lord! Lord Douglas!” The guard exclaimed, stopping to catch his breath, nearly wheezing between words. “Sorry sir. Half a dozen times I stopped, I did. Tellin’ meself ‘you’ll cop it when you get there’. Never thought about anythin’ for so long in me life! _Hang back_ I said to myself. _Or don’t_. ‘Cause if word got ‘round that I were to tell you about this, but I didn’t show my face I’d’ve really been in trouble, sir.”

A cross between frustration and confusion took over Douglas’ features as he approached the boy, hands on his hips. “Speak some sense, lad!” he barked.

“Right!” The boy fidgeting, obviously struggling to find the right words. At this point, Braden had also stood and circled the table to get a better view of the situation.

“Right, sir,” the guard repeated. “Before I say… I want you to know, sir, for myself like, I never done it and I didn’t see who done it neither, so I shouldn’t be punished for nothing, should I?”

“All this preamble.” Douglas grumbled. “It must be something terrible if you’re going to this length to absolve yourself already.”

“Aye sir, it _is_ bad news. I’m a tad nervous, sir, I don’t know how to tell you.”

Douglas pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “ _Plainly._ Put it plainly. Then we can be done with you.”

“Right. Straight out with it, I guess.” The guard paused, squeezed his eyes shut tight as if sending a desperate prayer up to the Maker, before blurting out, “The body’s buried! All dry dust sir, but done nicely, neatly. Like someone took great pains to cover it up, then disappeared.”

“Buried!” Douglas bellowed. **“ _Buried!”_**

The guard flinched, and Braden took a step back from the situation now, the astonishment apparent in his posture.

“Aye, sir, buried.”

“Who dared to have disobeyed my order?” The Arl was now red-faced, seething. His jaw jutted forward, bottom teeth showing and his fists clenched.

“No way of knowing who done it sir, there’s no clues left behind to say. When the sentry taking the early shift gave the report, we was all shattered, scared stiff! It weren’t a proper grave, you see, but there were pains taken, sir to see that it was covered. Still against your order. Weren’t no dogs or other animal tracks around neither. No footprints, nothing left behind!”

“Perhaps this may be a sign.” Braden re-entered the conversation, inserting himself between the Arl and the young guard. “My lord, your decree has honestly had me concerned from the very start. Even from a political perspective I am inclined to guess that this may be a sign from the Maker.”

“Everyone, shut up before I lose my temper!” Douglas was visibly livid, and therefore speaking a little too late on that one. He raised a shaking finger to Braden, his eyes a window to the boiling hot rage stirred inside of him. “And you! Even if you are an old fool, you shouldn’t talk like one. You think the Maker would really give a second thought towards that pile of stinking meat? Pah!”

Douglas crossed once more to the mantle to regard the portrait of his sister once more, only this time he yanked it down from its place, leaving the stone behind it noticeably naked. If his deep baritone could be described as the distant thunder when his voice was low, he was now a raging storm. “Paraic was hardly one of the Chantry’s principal supporters. He came to wreak havoc on Mistmoor. His service to the Rebel Queen would have costed more than half the families in this village a parent or child, as my foolish sister’s service did before him. Tell me, do any of you really believe the Maker could love a criminal?”

Holding the portrait facing down, Douglas lifted his leg, and broke it over his knee. The frame broke, and he pulled it apart, using the leverage to tear the canvas. “Mark me!” he demanded, tossing the broken pieces onto the cold ashes under where it once was mounted. “There are men in this city, a cell of oppositionists. They reject the law of our Orlesian masters and meet in secret. They are indeed a danger to my authority, but more importantly, to all of Mistmoor, and the rest of Ferelden!”

There was a great pause, during which the only sound in the room was that of Douglas’ labored breathing. Finally, he pointed to the guard, but was still trying to catch his breath. “You. I will give you an ultimatum. You will find me the man who buried Paraic’s body. No other will do. I want him standing here in front of me, or _you_ will die for it.”

The guard gulped but nodded in agreement. His eyes were wide and fearful as Douglas slowly pulled his chair back out and sat, propping his elbows on the table and holding his head in his hands.

“C-can I speak, sir?” asked the guard.

“No.” Douglas’ voice was exhausted. “Every word you say is painful to me.”

“W-well sir, that can’t be an earache, can it? Maybe it’s some other pain. Deep down in your gullet. Maybe a pain in the morals. The conscience.”

“You dare stand there and make jokes of my conscience, boy?” Douglas lifted his head up, eyes like daggers at the guard, who shook his head vigorously.

“No, sir, no sir. I always talked too much, as it were, but it can’t be all earache what I said, no sir. It’s the other pain, the heartache. That’s the criminal causing that, not me. I didn’t bury the body. Not guilty of that, sir.”

“Ah, but maybe guilty of turning your eyes the other way in exchange for gold, right?” Douglas’ sneered cruelly at the guard, who recoiled, backing up in preparation to take his leave.

“No. Due respect, sir: I think it a shame that such an educated, intelligent man as yourself should miss the point so completely.”

With that, the guard took his leave before the Arl could make an order to cut his life shorter than it already had been if he were to fail in finding the one guilty of Paraic’s burial. Braden then placed his hands on the table near Douglas, who looked up at his friend to find him with one inquisitive brow raised.

Face already soured by his poor mood, Douglas spat in disgust. “I am not interested in his opinions! If he fails to find this rebel, this enemy of Ferelden, he will learn that money, from _whatever_ source will certainly not save his life!” Douglas slammed both fists on the table for a final time, then stood and stormed out of the room.

Grabbing his piece of toast before he, too, takes his leave, Braden remarks to only the shocked servants remaining in the room, “Is there anything more wonderful in our world than the miracle of man? Quick-witted birds are no match for him, neither victim nor predator among the beasts of the plains, nor the seas seething masses. Man’s cunning and skill surpasses the instinct of nature. The wild bull of the savage Frostbacks, and the significant Halla who passes like a king through the Brecilian, and the untamed horse with his matted tresses all submit to man. The only disease he cannot salve is death.”

Braden finally bows to the servants with a pleasant flourish, then leaves the room.


	3. All Respects, Meticulously Observed

“Did you hear the Arl’s fit this morning?” Ewan asked as he and Ailish walked arm in arm, quickly through the village’s backroads, keeping their voices and their heads low. Despite the weather, the two of them wore cloaks with the hoods up to prevent being immediately recognized, but there was a danger if they lingered too long.

“No, I stayed only long enough to bathe and change my clothes.” Ailish replied, gesturing to the clothes she wore which were more suited to a lady’s day of errand running than a fine dress. A wonderful guise. “I don’t know how you stand being in that house with him.”

Ewan shrugged, but the corners of his mouth were tugged down into a frown, and his shoulders sagged. “I know my poor, late father would disapprove of my mother’s choice of second husbands, but she loves him. Were she not there, I wouldn’t stomach it any longer.”

With a snort, she agreed. “Douglas has gone mad with power. If there is anything redeemable of him now, it lies not in his character, and solely with his being my mother’s brother.” She shook her head. “Truthfully, I pity him. I mourn for the uncle I knew as a girl. Insofar as I am concerned, the modern Douglas has murdered the old one.”

Ewan stopped walking, and faced Ailish, who looked up at him with only affection in her eyes. He smiled prettily, showing white teeth. They were slightly overjet and subtly crowded, but those few imperfections were insignificant to her. She had always thought of him as having a beautiful smile, and matched his grin before leaning in for a kiss. He happily obliged.

“I would take you away from Mistmoor as soon as I am able,” he whispered. “But I have duties here that I must see to the end… and you do, too, if you’re willing.”

Her brow knit in confusion as Ewan took her hand, but she followed behind his long stride willingly. They ducked under full clotheslines, stepped over stray cats and burlap sacks waiting to be loaded inside. There was only a short walk before they arrived at a cellar’s entrance, likely behind a shop. An old man sat beside the cellar doors on a small stool, whom Ailish recognized at the blacksmith’s father. He occupied himself with a wooden carving, a shape she couldn’t make out just yet.

“’Tis a glorious sunrise.” Said the old man without looking up.

“Better still when the army of the foreign invader makes it’s panic-stricken flight.” Replied Ewan.

The man finally lowered his work and raised a thick white brow at Ewan, his eyes flicking over to Ailish for just a moment in scrutiny. His gaze full of suspicion. The old man kept his eyes glued to her, saying nothing. Ewan placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned toward him to whisper an explanation.

“Paraic’s sister. A trusted friend.” Ewan then straightened and cleared his throat, uttering the last part of what appeared to be a secretive code, just barely above a whisper. “Glory to the descendant of Calenhad, true king of Ferelden.”

The man nodded, then reached to grab hold of a bit of rope attached to the cellar door’s handle. He swung it open for them, and as Ewan was leading his fiancée down the steps, she heard the old man say, “Maker’s light shine upon our Rebel Queen.”

Ailish and her fiancé descended the steep wooden steps, which creaked under their weight into the space beneath the house. It was hot, the air stale. She could feel herself already beginning to sweat before the last step. When her eyes finally adjusted to the dark, she was astonished to find that the cellar was bigger than she thought, and could easily hold what appeared to be about thirty people.

“Paraic’s body, covered!” The gleeful, sing-song tone of a finely, but practically dressed man rang out through the crowded cellar. It was cramped, smelled of must and bodies, and stank of spilled ale. “Now, if only Queen Moira were here to give honors to her fallen soldier!” 

Ailish stood on her toes to stand over the crowd, one of all shapes, sizes, and ages. The crowd bowed their heads in unison, all going silent for a long while. She looked over them, astonished to find this many people, some of whom she even recognized, who respected her dead brother. Finding someone who could string together just two positive words about Paraic these days was like finding a rare jewel, and it brought tears to her eyes to find a whole crowd that loved him enough to rejoice in an attempt at a proper burial.

“These are people that worked with your mother and brother,” Ewan whispered in her ear. “All of them rebels.”

Ailish’s lips formed a tight line as the speaker moved on to a new topic that she wasn’t quite familiar with. She turned to Ewan, hiding the movement of her lips from any who might be listening behind her hand. “But I’m not like these people, Ewan. I haven’t done anything for the Rebellion. I was just trying to be a good sister. Paraic would have done the same for me, if our roles were reversed.”

“These people wouldn’t see it that way. What would stand out to them is that you defied the Arl to do what’s right.” Ewan searched Ailish’s face, which she was sure held all her doubts on quick display. He held her chin. “Listen. I’m not asking for something that will get us all killed—all of our own endeavors here in Mistmoor have been small anyway. What I mean, is that I know you have the will to do what’s _right_ , to stand up to tyrants like Douglas. If you join us, you will have all these people to support you, and we can all work _together_ to accomplish what we need to. Freedom in Mistmoor means freedom in one village in the Bannorn. Others may follow, they may not. One is better than none.”

Ailish lowered her gaze to think. Douglas _was_ a tyrant, though rebelling against an Arl wasn’t anything like defying the crown. But she did love Mistmoor. She did love her brother. And she did warn Imogen not to keep their conversation a secret, meaning that she did, in some form, intend to make sacrifices for what she stood for.

After a long moment, she nodded.

“Fine.” She said. “If I can contribute any more to defying the Arl and help in preventing monsters like him from making any more unjust decrees in Mistmoor, I shall pledge my services to Queen Moira.”

Ewan’s smile grew, and he kissed her forehead. “I’ll admit, that’s more than I expected, even if you did agree. Come, then. I have someone to introduce you to.”

The other rebels in the room had taken up chattering in small groups. Ailish couldn’t hear anything specific, but they all used hushed tones, filling the basement with an odd hum that still masked the sounds of her and Ewan weaving through them. Ewan greeted the man who was speaking earlier, and up close Ailish recognized him as one of Douglas’ servants he had brought with them, a skinny, well-dressed middle-aged man.

“Horatio,” Ewan said, “You know Ailish, I should think.”

“Ah, but I do.” Horatio extended a hand, and Ailish gave it a firm shake. “Arl Neale’s daughter. A shame what happened to your father, my lady. I lost my wife many years ago, but I remember the grief well. I can only imagine what a heavy burden it was to entice him so to death.”

She smiled mirthlessly, but thanked him nonetheless. “A bittersweet comfort though it is, I am able to console myself with the thought that neither of my parents lived to know how their sons died.”

“And a better comfort that they are safe at the Maker’s side,” added Horatio. “They did not have to suffer knowing that only one son was allowed a proper funeral.”

“Aye,” Ewan said, “but Ailish herself saw to it that Paraic at least was allowed some respect. Covered him by herself.”

Horatio’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and he gave her a slight bow. “Dear lady, you surprise me. I know he was your brother, but to defy an order with such danger attached to it, that’s brave.”

“I love both of my brothers, though I didn’t always share their political inclinations. Regardless of who the body belonged to in life, the dead are due respect. I fear my motives for now deciding to throw my lot in with the rebellion are a tad more selfish than some.” She looked down at her hands, which she was wringing almost nervously. “Douglas is a tyrant. He is a cruel puppet for his Orlesian slavers. I shall not suffer his ilk in my childhood home.”

“I assure you, that’s a better motive than some. Some here in this room just want to kill things, but can’t cut it as mercenaries. Others are after titles the Orlesians won’t give them.”

The three of them chatted for what seemed to be forever, until a plump young man came barreling down the stairs.

“They’ve done the unthinkable, truly!” he cried. “Arl Douglas can’t leave well enough alone and has ordered Paraic’s body to be dug up, to rot where we walk!”

Ailish’s face went dark, and before Ewan or Horatio knew what was happening, she had already slipped through the crowd to address the boy herself.

“What pettiness!” She shouted as she weaved through the crowd. “What needless cruelty! It seems that to be politically unaligned with the Arl is to be treated as less than what you are, less than human, less than elven, less than dwarven.” All eyes were on her now, but using her anger as her stage, she was blind to the anxiety of public speaking.

“We gathered in this cellar today are to be treated as the rodent in the pantry, the dying rabbit by the road, the snake in the garden. Those of us that stand for what believe earn our status as _vermin_ to our Arl Douglas. Well!” There was a long pause, and stopped just at the foot of the steps. She had lowered her voice to normal speaking range, but the room was so quiet by now that none should have struggled to hear. “I wear my badge proudly, and it reads _rat_. Feral, and unfriendly, Douglas believes me his prey. But by the end of this, it shall be I who feasts upon the cat, and not the other way around.”

Ailish quickly ascended the stairs, not bothering to pull the hood of her cloak up when she exited the cellar. She ran numbly through the streets of Mistmoor, not knowing whether anyone was following after her. Though she could hardly see anything but her destination in her mind’s eye, she dodged every passing person with ease, until she came upon the square once more. There were guards, two, but neither were watching the body.

Bored, perhaps. Wholly aware that guarding a stinking corpse was a waste.

Ailish couldn’t tell how long she waited for them to move on, but she did, patiently. When she believed that they weren’t watching, she approached her brother’s body once more, and grabbed a handful of dust from the ground to re-cover him.


	4. The Bitter Potion

“Oh _no._ No, no, _no_.” Ewan breathed, his eyes wide with horror. He had stepped out into the square moments too late. Even arriving late to the show as he did, he already knew what she had tried to do. In broad daylight, she attempted to re-bury her brother, and now Ewan was watching as the guards were taking her away. She didn’t seem to be giving them a fight, either. Ailish walked with her head down, but there was a calmness in her step which sent a shiver down his spine.  
  


Resigned to the fact that he could do nothing for her at present without getting himself arrested also, Ewan drew the hood of his cloak up around his face, and fell into step several paces behind the guards. Before arriving at Castle Mistmoor, he took a sharp turn, walking along the wall that traced the perimeter of the castle’s grounds.

The path he took was a familiar one that he had taken many times before, even before his mother and step-father had taken residence within. There was a spot where a stone in the wall jutted out more from the rest, providing a decent foothold that Ewan used to scale the wall. Landing on the other side, he was quiet and quick, making a bee-line to an old metal lattice covered in rust and flowering life. The vines scaling it were fresh green, and he took care not to crush the leaves with his hands or boots.

When Ewan had climbed enough to reach a second-level window, the lock and hinge on which had been left broken for many years, he reached out to push it open. The glass pane swung open easily, allowing him to grab some leverage on the sill and pull himself inside. The room he pulled himself into belonged to his lady love, and was decorated prettily, but modestly. She was not one to adorn herself or her furnishings in fine silks and pretty jewels, and while the clothes she wore were fine, they were not flashy as the most modern fashions from Orlais tended to be.

Before leaving, he stopped by her bed, which was left unmade from this morning. On the table to the side stood a small painting, propped up by a stack of books. He lifted it to take a closer look. Pictured there was Ailish, a playful gleam in her green eyes, and a ghost of a smile on her lips. Her black coils were gathered together, carefully pinned up. To her side was her father, a stoic man of few words. What little he did say was often sage advice. Never had Ewan ever suspected the late Arl was capable of feeling such intense heartbreak, but mourn he did for the former Arlessa. He had hidden so much. All of his secret pains bled out into the cold stone of his bedchamber floor.

Ewan shook his head and put the picture down. Now was not the time to reminisce or mourn. He had little time to get back to his room and pretend as if he had been there all morning. If suspected of conspiring with Ailish, he would never be able to help her. Silently, he slipped into the hallway and made for his room, only he was stopped by a whimper addressing him by name. He hesitated, but turned to see Ailish’s sister, Imogen, standing in the doorway to her room, located across from the one he had just left.

“Ewan,” Imogen repeated tearfully. “You know what happened? Ailish is going to be caught, and it’s all my fault!”

He thought that she might begin to start wailing, so he closed the distance between them and quickly put a hand to her mouth, obviously startling her. Imogen’s eyes were wide and wet, and he grimaced internally at the feeling of her wet face against his palm.

“Sssh.” One of his fingers of his free hand was held against his lips, and he waited for her to agree. When satisfied that she wouldn’t cause a scene, he removed his hand from her face, wiping his palm on his pant-leg. “Ailish told me everything, and now she is facing the Arl. If you’d like to ingratiate yourself to her once more, just do as I say.”

***

The guard from breakfast entered the Arl’s throne room that afternoon, looking like the cat that got the cream. Braden, who came in to greet him first with his hands folded behind his back, sauntered over to the guard with a bored expression, which mutated into different shades of shock and despair when he saw who accompanied the boy, with her hands bound in front of her.

“Maker’s tears!” Braden gasped, stepping close to get a good look at the girl’s face, just to be sure. She turned her head away, her eyes downcast, expression blank. “I can’t believe my eyes, do you know who this is? This is Ailish! Her family’s destiny, it seems, is suffering and pain. Tell me, child,” he addressed her directly now, only eliciting a side-long glance, “Did you openly disobey the new Arl’s order? Guard! Must you manhandle her this way?”

The guard hesitated, but loosened the grip his hand had on her arm. “We saw it, we did. Burying the body, caught him in the act--,” The guard’s eyes inspected Ailish for but a moment. “Caught _her_ red-handed, as they say, ahem. Er, where’s the Arl?”

Douglas entered the room, clad in fine silks, looking like a native of Val Royeaux more than Fereldan. He approached the guard, and his face mirrored that of Braden’s. Shock. Horror. It finally went stone blank as the guard when prattling on.

“Lord Douglas!” The guard called out. He hardly could contain his relief and giddiness. “I reckon it’s always unwise to swear oaths and make promises, even to yourself. Nine times out of ten you end up looking a liar. Why, it’s practically no time at all since I sworn to myself I’d never be seen here dead again, that’s for sure. But here I am! And this girl here, she’s your criminal. Caught her burying the body after we’d brushed all that dust off it. Saw her setting the grave to rights, and caught her right in the middle, all myself!”

The guard let go of Ailish, surrendering her over to two castle guard who were on standby. “She’s all yours, sir,” he chattered on. “Take her, accuse her. Stone her to death if you like. I’m free to go, and wash my hands of this whole mess by now, I reckon.”

“Where did you arrest her?” Douglas demanded before the guard could slink out of the throne room. “Tell me all of the details.” He never once moved his eyes from Ailish, who did not bother to return the gaze which was boring holes into her head.

“She was burying him, sir, what else is there to say?”

“Are you out of your mind!?” Douglas shouted at the guard, now tearing his gaze from his niece, his face flushing red. It was an amplified version of his display at breakfast, which caused the guard to shrink into his boots. “Do you even understand the implication of what you are saying?”

“I saw her do it. She came and started to bury the body that you ordered to remain unburied, sir. I can’t speak any plainer than that. It’s like this: Soon as I got back this morning, we brushed all the earth off the body, which was all wet and starting to stink something _terrible—”_ The guard and Douglas made eye-contact for a brief moment, draining the color from the young man’s face. He sputtered for a moment, but his words were able to find their footing soon enough.

“W-we waited to midday, and it were busy and all, with all those people in the market, and suddenly, this girl steps out from the crowd. She was screaming, like she were in pain, or were powerfully angry. She picked up a few handfuls of dirt and spread it over him, and soon as we saw that, we went down and arrested her. She admitted to it all too, admitted to burying him last night and this afternoon, and boy were we relieved!” The guard’s face faltered suddenly, a sad frown tugging at the corners of his lips as he stole a look at Ailish. He sighed. “Of course, sorry, too. Not so nice to know when you drop someone else up to the neck in it, but… your own life comes first, I guess.”

After the guard finished speaking, Douglas dismissed him, and silence fell upon the room. Braden, Ailish, Douglas, and the remaining guards didn’t so much as clear their throats.

“You there, with your head down.” Douglas’ voice was a low growl, “Do you admit it? Are you guilty or not?”

“Yes.” Ailish said, finally lifting her head and capturing her uncle’s gaze with her own. In her heart, she could feel a boiling heat, angry and hateful as she looked up at him. “I am guilty. I don’t pretend otherwise.”

“And did you, or did you not hear my decree?”

“Of course, I heard it. How could I not?”

A crease formed in Douglas’ weathered brow and he shook his head, bewildered. “And yet you dared still to disobey the law?”

“Yes! Yes, I did, because it is _your_ law, not the law of the Maker. It is natural justice!” Ailish raised her voice, which answered back with an echo against the stone which made up the throne room. “You are merely a man, a mortal like me. Any laws that you enact cannot overturn ancient moralities or common decency. They speak the language of eternity, are not written down, and never change. No man’s power can make me disobey them.”

Braden murmured, shaking his head. Douglas remained still, almost as a statue, regarding her with quiet rage.

“As anyone, I shall die, perhaps sooner than later.” Ailish shot back venomously. “And I shall welcome it. My life was misery—is now. I shall be more than happy to leave it. There will be no pain, no despair in that. But to leave my mother’s son out there in the open, **_unburied—_ ” **Her voice was a loud rasp, and the tears stung at her eyes, her hands shaking with anger. “ _That_ would have been unendurable!”

“This is her mother speaking,” Braden interjected, “She won’t give way, even with the authority of the Arl against her.”

“We shall see.” A smile broke across Douglas’ face. It was not a pretty sight. It was cold and unnatural, repelling Braden’s eyes immediately. Ailish stood her ground, and held her head high. “Any man can be broken, and often the most committed and headstrong break first. Even iron, as you know, when left lying in the fire too long becomes over-tempered. You can break it to pieces. And in the end, even the wildest horse submits to the bit and halter like all the rest.”

Ailish and Douglas exchanged glares.

“You are too proud, girl.” Douglas’s voice was equal to the growl of a mabari. “That was evident when you disobeyed my order, but now you insult me to my face. Who do you think keeps the peace with the Orlesian loyalists that want for our territory? I doubt you’ve spared a single thought for that. You glory too much in the crime you’ve committed. If _you’re_ allowed to flout the law in this way, what example does that set for the rest of Mistmoor? You are my niece, my sister’s child, but _I_ am the law here—a responsibility that lies above kinship.”

At the throne room’s left entrance, from the guest wing of the castle, there came a commotion, the sound of sobbing and pleading. Douglas turned to watch the door for what would be Imogen’s entrance. Imogen was led into the room by a single guard, guided by the hand as she clutched a handkerchief with the other. Her face was puffy and red, as were her eyes, which shed more tears every time she dried them.

Douglas nodded and turned back to Ailish. “I had thought I’d seen your sister pacing the corridor before coming down here. If the two of you were even closer, my own daughters, my duty would be plain. The law has its weapons, and it will strike at you and your sister--,” he lifted his hand in a sweeping motion to regard Imogen, who only watched Ailish with a pained expression. Ailish, however, did not return her sister’s gaze, and kept her eyes only on their uncle. “Your accomplice, I have no doubt. Look at her, sobbing emotionally like a madwoman. Guilty consciences can never be hidden completely. The human face reveals conspiracies before they are even enacted, but there is _nothing_ more disgusting than the confessed criminal who tries to justify his actions.”

“What more do you want?” Ailish demanded. “Just kill me and have done with it, already. Nothing you say will be of the slightest interest to me, and it’s not as though you would listen to _my_ arguments.” She straightened her back, holding her chin high. Even with her hands bound in front of her, she was an image of strong defiance. “I have done what I’ve said I’d do. I buried my brother, and I aspire to no greater honor than that. Even your greatest friend, your trusted advisor agrees with me in his heart, but there is no gag like terror, is there Braden?”

Braden took a small step back, removing himself from the conversation for now.

“You’re mistaken,” Douglas sneered. “None in Mistmoor would think as you do.”

“They all do!” Ailish took a single step closer to Douglas, so that their faces were just under a foot away, yet her voice was elevated as though she were announcing her argument to a wild crowd. “They hide and share their opinions where you can’t find them! They keep their mouths closed when you are near!”

“No!” Douglas’ face was flushed red by now, and his hands were closed to fists. “You should be ashamed, pitting yourself against the majority, placing your own values above their safety. You disregard the will of the people!”

“I love my brother!” Ailish’s voice rasped, a half-scream. Her own face became flush, mirroring her uncle’s rage. “I honor him dead as I loved him living. There is no shame for that.”

“And the one he murdered? Was he not your brother?”

“My mother bore them both, and I loved them both. Yes.”

“Pah!” Douglas’ hands went up in the air and he took a few steps back. Imogen watched the exchange, eyes still spilling tears. As Douglas paced back and forth for a moment, all that could be heard were the sounds of his footsteps, her sniffling, and Ailish’s ragged breath. She shook when he wasn’t looking, but inhaled deeply when he turned back to her, hiding from him her moment of weakness.

“If you honor one brother, you insult the other.”

Ailish shook her head, her voice coming out quiet. She was tired. “Neither of those dead men would say that.”

“Errol would. Paraic would have brought Moira’s rebellion to Mistmoor, put us all in danger. Errol fought to prevent that, and was murdered for it. The only innocent was Errol, his brother was a traitor. Does he not merit any of your respect?”

“Errol was not an animal!” Ailish shook her head as she barked. Her black curls were loose, and shook with her. “He knew that the dead have their rights, and we have our duties towards them—dictated by common decency. Death is another country. Things like civic duty, man’s law, those are things that likely wouldn’t have any value by the Maker’s side.”

“An enemy is an enemy, live or dead.”

Imogen sobbed loudly, breaking the angry trance that held both her sister and her uncle. Braden, who had removed himself for a few moments, went to stand beside her, his face creased with concern. He had been a good friend of their father’s after all—and Douglas’, before he had risen to Arl. Her face was marred with anguish, as she wept for her mother, her father, her dead brothers, and her sister soon to join them.

“Snake in the grass!” Douglas roared, his anger claiming Imogen as unwitting victim. She choked on her tears and shrank into Braden’s quick-acting embrace. “You slither about my house to drink my blood in secret! Both of you are the same. Foul reptiles I allowed to nest where I lay my head. When it was revealed that your mother was a traitor to Orlais, I should have thrown the lot of you out from Mistmoor. Let you fight amongst yourselves for some other territory that doesn’t belong to you.”

Douglas was very close to Imogen, who could no longer shrink away from him. Braden held her tight, but there was no more soothing he could do. The Arl was inches away from her face. “Well?” he asked. “Do you too confess to this crime? Or do you protest your innocence?”

“Yes! Yes, yes! I was involved!” Imogen had nearly jumped out of Braden’s embrace at the chance to incriminate herself, finding new energy and confidence, though the tears were a steady stream from her eyes, which were wide and wild. “If my sister allows me to say so, I am fully involved. I am guilty, just as she!”

“No!” Ailish protested, approaching her sister and shoving her at the shoulder with her bound hands. “That isn’t justice! When I asked you for help, you refused me.”

Imogen looked hurt, more so than she did before. “But now that you’re in danger, I would be proud to stand beside you at the dock. Please don’t despise me, let me share the honor and die with you!”

Ailish scoffed, turning her head away as though she had encountered something rotten, “The dead man knows who buried him, as does the Maker. You have no right to the honor of doing what you were too much of a coward to do yourself. Why should you die when my death would be enough?”

“Life without you can never be worth living!”

Ailish again pushed her sister away. Imogen did not fight it.

“Ask Douglas to help you, he is your uncle.” Ailish said with her lip curled.

Imogen wept for a long moment, struggling to speak for a long time until finally she was able to bleat something out between tears. “Do I deserve your contempt? Do you enjoy making fun of me, laughing at my misery?”

Ailish’s heart broke with that question, and her face mirrored it. Douglas silently observed the exchange, when Ailish went to embrace her weeping sister. She smoothed her hair, whispered gentle things in her ear, and delivered a kiss to her temple.

“Save your own life.” Ailish advised. “You chose to live when I chose to die, and let that be the end of it. You will not have any criticism or envy from me. I am sorry for sneering at you. Bitter pleasures as those are all I have left. I have felt dead for a long time, Imogen. I would be well-suited for this.”

“These women are _both_ lunatics.” The Arl gave a dry chuckle, and shook his head. “Imogen going off her head before our eyes, and Ailish born unbalanced.”

“Anyone would crack under such treatment!” Imogen was still clinging to her sister, seemingly renewed by her show of affection. She addressed Douglas harshly, with a spark in her eyes.

“Quiet. You lost your senses when you allowed her to influence you with her lunacy. Don’t dwell on her any longer, she is as good as dead.”

“Do you really plan to kill the woman your wife’s son plans to marry?”

“Ewan will not want for the affections of young women. There are… _plenty_ of other fields to plough.”

“Oh, Ewan.” Ailish sighed. “How your step-father insults you.”

“Sire,” Braden interjected. “Ailish and Ewan are formally betrothed. They are devoted to one another. Would you really tear his love from his arms?”

Seemingly surprised by Braden’s interruption, Douglas turned his full confusion and attention to him. Bewildered, he asked“What should his mistress matter to me, exactly?”

Braden had no answer.

“Death separates lovers in the end anyhow.”

“Then her death warrant is sealed?” Braden asked, his voice cracking.

“You heard the order, Braden.” The Arl confirmed with a nod. “Agreed to it, if only by silence, before the criminal was named. Now,” Douglas gestured to the guard who had brought in Imogen. “No more of this. Take them both away, keep them under careful guard.”

The guard called in another, and soon the sisters were whisked away. Braden stood dumbfounded for a moment, and Douglas paced silently about the room, finally taking a seat on the throne, which was cold and bare.

“They can count themselves lucky,” mumbled Braden. “Those fortunate few, who live their lives through, never drinking from the bitter cup of pain.”


	5. When the Madness Strikes

Braden and Douglas both retired from the throne room to an old office, still decorated with the previous owner’s possessions. They stewed in weary silence, Douglas brooding over an empty desk space with his eyes closed, and Braden pouring himself a glass of old single-malt liquor, which he was currently nursing, having hardly touched it.

The door opened, the accompanying sound of boots on the floor breaking their silence. Douglas remained undisturbed while Braden greeted the visitor, suddenly lively.

“Ah! Come in, come in!” He bade the visitor. “Douglas, your poor step-son, poor Ewan has arrived! Perhaps desperate with grief over being so brutally denied his future bride?” Braden gestured to young Ewan’s expression, which did reflect a shadow of what the older man suggested. “Perhaps he’s come to beg for mercy on behalf of his beloved Ailish?” A hint of hope shone in Braden’s face, but it was quickly whisked away by a quick sip of his drink as he found a seat near the corner of the office.

The Arl slowly opened his eyes, and sat up straight, mirroring Ewan’s stiff posture. The young man stood just inside the door, clearly debating on whether or not to fully enter the room.

“Dear boy,” Douglas began. “No doubt you heard our final decision concerning Ailish. I hope you don’t come here in any spirit of anger towards me, but rather… _understanding._ ” Those last syllables were accented with hopeful tones. “Know, while you are not my flesh and blood, I do still love you as my own. For you, I only want what’s best.”

Ewan made a gesture, which seemed to be a mix between a nod and a shrug. He was hesitant to take his turn to speak. “Sire, I do understand the depth of your experience in matters of the state—and I do try to abide by it to the best of my abilities. Truly, any marriage you didn’t approve of would be worthless to me.” He finally stepped inside the room, but stood in the center, just a few feet in front of the Arl’s desk.

“Hah!” With a single triumphant clap, the Arl stood from his seat and rounded the desk to sit on the corner, so that he was closer to the boy. His body seemed to have been reinvigorated by that admission. “Hold onto that, boy. Any father whose child fails to yield any of the benefits of his parenthood breeds grief. And raise you I did, didn’t I? Since you were knee-high. I wouldn’t let any woman ensnare you into submission. Ailish would have been a dominating wife anyhow—Maker help the poor fools who marry _that_ kind of woman.”

Ewan’s face twisted into disgust, but he hid it quickly.

“Mark me, Ewan: passion never lasts. A cold bedroom breeds even colder hearts. Anger, bitterness…” The Arl shook his head and swept his hands out in front of him as if to push those things away. “There is no hatred so violent as the hatred of two people who were once in love.”

Ewan watched his step-father, eyes narrowing. It did not go unnoticed. Douglas closed the difference between the two of them and smiled as though he were dealing with the temper of a small child, and was finding it amusing. He placed his large hands on Ewan’s shoulders.

“My boy,” Douglas patronized. “This girl is poison. She never had your best interests at heart, not like me. She is a traitor, and if I were to pardon her, _I_ would also be a traitor—to the law and to myself. So, let her pray to the Maker until she drops, let her find a suitable husband among the dead.” He patted Ewan on the cheek affectionately. “If I tolerate treachery in my own house, how can I expect to crush it within Mistmoor? A man who rules wisely in his own family is more likely to make sensible judgements in regards to the law. Do you understand?”

“You certainly have spoken through the wisdom of long experience,” Braden interjected from his corner. He shrugged when the two glanced at him, then quietly resumed his drink.

“Douglas, you are as much a father to me as my actual father was…” Ewan shifted from one foot to another as he considered his next words. “It is true, I have always known you to make sound judgement on important matters. But as a son, I feel as though my most useful function would be to keep you in touch with what other people are thinking. Your disapproval is a great silencer—but I do hear what people whisper behind their hands, and everywhere I go I hear words of sympathy for Ailish. What she did is seen as an honorable thing, not condemnable.”  


There was a great stillness between them. Braden had stopped sipping his drink, and all traces of a smile on Douglas’ face were replaced by hard, unamused stone.

“I might add, sir,” Ewan was taking great care with his words, delivering them gently as if there were newborn babes sleeping nearby. “Your reputation is as important to me as your health and happiness. Let me beg you to have second thoughts and not be so certain that your own opinion is the only right one. Do you disagree that a man who thinks he has a monopoly on wisdom, that only what _he_ thinks or says is of any relevance, reveals his own shallowness of mind? Truly, it is not _weakness_ to value other opinions, nor to learn from them when you are wrong.”

Braden stood, taking only one and a half steps towards Douglas’ desk, where the Arl was leaning against as he listened to Ewan, arms crossed. Ever-faithful advisor faced away from the boy and leaned towards the lord to whisper. “Even you, sire, must admit the young man speaks a lot of sense – as do you, Lord. Fact is, both of you are right, and there’s a great deal to be said of either side.”

“Is there indeed?” Douglas barked, clearly not concerned with silent discussion. His face was becoming flushed, and his brow seemed to knit tighter and tighter each time either of the other two spoke. “Am I now expected to take political lessons from a _boy?”_

Ewan matched his step-father’s bark, using his hands to animate his point. “I am a _man,_ Douglas! And my arguments are just. Every word I’ve said stands not upon my age, but my merit.”

Braden turned away to be seated once more as Douglas threw his arms up in the air. “Merit! They stand upon your merit, do they? Tell me, what merit is there in _breaking the law?_ ”

“If Ailish had done something shameful, I wouldn’t be here defending her.”

“She. Has. Broken. **The. Law!** _That’s_ shameful!” Douglas shouted, with a bit of spittle escaping his lips. He had shifted colors, face fully flushed and his eyes wide and bloodshot. They looked ready to pop out of his skull should he hear anything more to blacken his mood.

“ _Listen!”_ Ewan pleaded in a half-scream, taking a backwards step from the Arl, his body animated with frustration. “The ordinary people of Mistmoor, ask anyone in all the streets, listen to them! They’re saying she’s done nothing wrong!”

His step-father shook his head almost violently, as if the very idea was poison. “I have _never_ based my political principles on the opinions of people on the street.”

“Now who’s talking like a boy?” Ewan sneered.

Douglas’ fist crashed down on the desk, causing some of the ornaments and letter-writing tools to jump and rattle with it for a brief second. “I am speaking as an Arl, as is my responsibility, and I act only according to my own convictions! An Arling is the Arl who rules it, it reflects his judgement and the law is his own!”

“Go and be Arl of the desert, then!” Ewan came just inches away from Douglas’ face as he shouted. “Go be King of the Hissing- _Pissing_ Wastes! What a king you’ll be there with no one to listen to you!

Douglas shoved him back and jabbed a finger towards him. “You’re weak! With your pathetic doting – It’s contemptible! You’ve no mind of your own, boy, you’re merely a woman’s mouthpiece!”

“I am not ashamed of what I’m saying, you fool. I am pleading not only for my fiancée, but for _you_ , for all of Mistmoor! Have respect for the dead. Admit when you are wrong! Be humble, _have compassion_!”

Douglas’ voice had dropped back down to its typical low rumble, and he rounded the desk once more, shaking his head. “Dear boy…” He was nearly breathless. “You shall never marry that woman. She will not live to see the day.”

Ewan stepped forward once more, placing his hands upon the Arl’s desk and leaning over him. Braden watched wide-eyed from his corner, having all but forgotten the drink he had so casually poured for himself.

“Mark me,” Ewan began, mocking his Step-father’s earlier request, “your policy was misbegotten from the beginning. If Ailish dies, she won’t be dying alone. There will be two deaths.”

“Threatening me, now, are you?”

“No, I’m telling you.”

Ewan turned and left the room for the main hall, but Douglas was fast on his heels. Once again, his voice was elevated, echoing and catching the attention of curious guards and servants in the hall.

“You’ll regret what you’ve said here today, Ewan, I promise you. You’ll never marry that bloody woman, Maker strike me down now if I’m a liar!” He held his arms out wide. Ewan stopped just a few paces ahead and turned to watch Douglas’ display.

“I will not be sneered at and contradicted. How I wish that you were my flesh and blood so I might demonstrate that sons may be punished too!” Douglas gestured to a pair of nearby guards, and they stood at attention as he gave orders. “Bring her out, the bitch! Let her die here and now. Ewan, as a witness, you may watch the execution, boy!”

Ewan’s fists were clenched tightly, and he lunged for Douglas, but the guards he had given orders to were just as quick to keep the young man from strangling the Arl.

“That is a sight I’ll never see, rest assured!” Ewan hissed through grit teeth, one hand being held behind his back, restrained by a guard away from the Arl, and the other gripping Douglas’ shirt as the other guard attempted to pry it away from his grasp. “And _you._ You shall never see me again, Douglas.”

Finally he released the Arl’s shirt and shoved him off, as well as the guards. Douglas nodded, assuring them that it was safe to let him go as Ewan back away towards the exit.

“Very well!” Ewan addressed the audience of the servants, guards, and Braden who had been hanging back and observing. “All of you who wish to stay in the company of this madman and watch his disgusting spectacle, you are certainly welcome to it!”

After he finally took his exit, Ewan left a silence in his wake. Without another word, Douglas and Braden went back to the office and sat for a while.

“Arl Douglas,” Braden finally broke the silence with a weary tone, “That boy’s anger is a terrifying thing.”

Douglas shook his head and spoke calmly. “Oh, let him rant and rave about moral this and decent that. It will take more than all that bluster to reprieve those two.”

“Both sisters are to be put to death, then?” asked Braden. Douglas looked up, and Braden looked immediately away, suddenly rapt with the contents of a dusty bookshelf. He picked one up and flipped through it casually.

“No, you are right.” Douglas said. “I can take advice. The one who buried the body only. Let Imogen free. As for Ailish… take her to a lonely place. Rocky, unfrequented by anyone. There is a cave in the forest I know of, having come across it hunting. Plenty of predators in the wood to deter would-be rescuers. Wall her up inside it. She’ll have plenty of time before she starves to pay respects to her beloved dead and make amends with the Maker.”

“Very well, sir.” Braden took a bow and exited the office.


End file.
